Plus, I'm a little sick. Sick of Indian food, that is.
For those of you that have never experienced a good Ruby Murray (Curry) let me just say that it is like having a sweeping line of Bollywood dancers in your mouth. The sensations of spices around the tongue yield a comforting pleasure and a modicum of surprise. Creamy savory tikkas, the fried pakoras, and the crispy Naan leave one full and yet, tongue on fire, wanting more. Curiously, it is the only type of food that leaves my dessert deranged palate sated. After Indian food I don't need "a little something" sweet because I have tasted a rainbow of spices that have exhausted my mouth, making it feel as though it has run a 26 miler. After Indian, I just want to go home and make sure I have placed the toilet paper in the freezer.
Indian food is a treat and an experience.
And if my husband could, he would eat it every damn day.
It's not his fault his palate is so tainted. He was raised in England in the 60's and 70's. Post war cuisine was still extremely limited. He grew up on overcooked, boiled vegetables and lots of bland white greasy things masquerading as protein. His palate is as confused as a small child lost in a department store. It craves sensation to the odd extreme: cheese mixed peanut butter, lemon curd with peanut butter, often topped with milk poured over a croissant. I know, it confuses me too.
In 2015 the two of us visited India for two and a half weeks. (We flew coach. Does reading that make your back ache?). We were with our yoga teacher, Coral Brown in Rishikesh, for a phenomenal retreat experience, but prior to arriving to Mother Ganga and the foothills of the Himalayas, we spent time in Rajasthan, visiting several cities including the glittering city of Udaipur where we stayed in a palace. Our suite was enormous with a formal sitting room, huge master bedroom and a bathtub so large, that it took an hour to fill. A five star hotel for a whopping $65 per night! It had a view of the Lake Palace Hotel which twinkled at night. Our tour company arranged guides in each city who did their darnedest to get us to buy local artisan trinkets. After a few days, we were tired of the subtle manipulations and took matters into our own hands, consulting a tattered guide book. Many offerings beyond fortresses and palaces sounded interesting, but there was one that intrigued us: Mena's Indian Cooking School. Since I know it is my Husband's secret wish that I put on a sari and slave over a hot tandoori oven nightly, I thought this could be a good choice. Perhaps I could learn how to make a decent chai. I pictured the school in one of the finer hotels, a large, well lit kitchen, akin to something on the Food Network. Our guide, Vikram, was not pleased but he agreed to call the school and after much yammering in Hindi, it was arranged that our driver, Manesh would bring us to the school.
Nearing class time, we headed through the cloistering traffic. People, this was nothing like the Culinary Institute in Napa. It was in a private home in a small offshoot of a small vein of a small street in Udaipur. The street was so narrow that our driver's little Tata could not maneuver in such a minuscule area. He had to drop us off and so on foot, we walked through the neighborhood to find Mena.
Mena, was a firecracker of a little woman, an entrepreneur to the core. She greeted us in stellar English and lead us down the cobblestone street to her house. The neighborhood was in full party mode. Clusters of people everywhere, congregated in shops doors, while others walked at a fast pace, trying to avoid bumping into everyone else. Children laughed and cried; music blared from every door jamb. Know this: if you ever visit India, realized that the sensory overload extends to the audible. We entered her house and removed our dusty shoes, leaving them in the marble entry. It was a cool 89 degrees inside and as the three of us ascended the three flights of stairs, each floor got a little warmer. Nosy me looked through the open doors and saw neat bed pallets, children's toys and textbooks. The walls were white, but textiles in hues of saffron and ruby dotted them tastefully. On the top floor, we entered the kitchen where we met her husband. The kitchen was no bigger than a matchbox, perhaps 6x9. The first thing I noticed was the lack of a stove. There was a hot plate that in typical Indian fashion, was connected to a welder's propane tank. I noticed electric plugs, emerging from the walls, wrapped near the tiny sink. And then my worst nightmare was revealed: a tap! We had been told, under no circumstances to drink any tap water. We had been brushing our teeth with bottled water and showering with our mouths puckered into tight grimaces, lest a drop of the stuff slip in. And here we were, looking at a tap that had some type of bulbous cheesecloth filter strapped to the nozzle presumably to avoid cryposporiduim, or some other toxic load. Neither of us had experienced "Deli Belly", but since India has a way of gifting her friends with many lessons, I surrendered then and there. I will drink this water. I will get ill. I will just let it go. I have medicine back at the palace.
The second surprise was that Mena was leaving us with her husband who spoke NO English and who had never taught the class before. "I have to bring meals to someone. I'll be back soon". Her husband gave G and I a shy smile and began to educate us on proper way to boil a chai.
Now, I want you, my reader to look up from your phone or laptop. Pause, and see what is 15 feet in front of you. Okay, picture me, sweat pouring in rivulets down my spine as I looked out of the window and observed an old lady in the apartment across the street in repose, on her bed, wearing a sari, and watching TV. She was so close that I could hear her television. She was so close, I could have thrown her one of our homemade Pakoras and she could have popped it into her mouth. I regret that I didn't.
It was a very small space. The three of us prepped and cooked together for three hours, our bodies bumping constantly. We fried pakoras. We made roti, samosa and channa dal. All prepared by deep frying in peanut oil. After each small delicacy, we sat in tiny chairs and tasted our efforts. They were delicious. Our teacher showed us how to change the intensity of the flavors by adding limes, salt, or masala paste. It was an education of the senses beyond taste. We got into a flow where the three of us laughed as we tried to comprehend the tasks at hand. And, yes, I rinsed the food with the tap water, and since we ate nothing that wasn't heated or fried, it was just fine.
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| Pakora, Pouri, and other yummies |
In spite of the kitchen feeling like a sauna we enjoyed our class and were both inspired. Mena returned just in time to applaud our efforts and sell us some spice blends. Although the food was satisfying, the value most gained from the experience was cultural. By immersing ourselves into a home kitchen in Udaipur, another aspect of India was shown: that of a hardworking, enterprising woman. Mena works many jobs to support her kids so that they attend good schools. Mena was a steadfast and talkative hostess who has obviously succeeded in promoting her business, since it was in the Fodor's guide book.
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| In Mena's kitchen |
Gerard left with an Indian spice box called a masala dani, something found in every kitchen there. It is round and has seven containers with common spices that all cooks keep on hand: coriander, garam masala, cumin seeds, mustard, turmeric, red chili powder and green cardamom. Salt is used sparingly so that the elements of all can be tasted. They use no measuring spoons, just count "pinches" of spices which, when combined create endless dishes. With a little knowledge of the basics, Indian cuisine is not as intimidating as it appears. Besides, doesn't a curry always taste better the next day?
Coming home, we were motivated and now make our own masala chai. We make kitchari, an Indian comfort food, and add coriander to just about everything. I don't cook in a sari, usually just an oversized Warriors T shirt, much to G's disappointment. But, going to India did little to dampen his cravings for the cuisine. He's on a first name basis with all of the staff at our local Indian restaurant, Aabha In fact, the day it opened, G was the first customer! The owner, a young guy, makes him special dishes that aren't on the menu, and while G can easily down six cups of chai at one sitting, they never charge him extra. They are like family now, which is why we celebrated his birthday there.
Will we go back to India someday? I'm not sure, though I hear the cuisine in the south is delicious. Goa, I hear your beaches calling.
